


Land to Land

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Chocolate, Easter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flowers, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Max's Garden, Poetry, Sharing sweeties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 16:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Come on,’ Max orders. ‘Get some of that down you. Blood sugar,’ he adds, holding Morse’s grudging gaze with the ease of long practise. ‘You’ve more than earnt it.’





	Land to Land

**Author's Note:**

> Written with no other excuse in mind except that I love how Max and Morse having conversations in Max's garden is steadily becoming a Thing in this fandom and I wanted to commemorate Easter, however late. 
> 
> Please note: spoilers for Series 6 and also some references to violence in the aftermath of a case, although nothing particularly graphic. Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine. Obviously, I don't own Endeavour.

‘I so often find,’ Max comments, wandering back out into the garden, one hand grasping a glass of water and the other wrapped around a small, foil-covered sphere, ‘that chocolate can be the cure to many ills. Or at least gives us something else to focus on, for a while.’

His cheer fades slightly with a glance at Morse, who doesn’t reply beyond a nod of thanks for the water. He looks the absolute picture of the tragic hero, sprawled in his chair, head cradling his face as though protecting himself, his tie and shirt askew, tea sitting in front of him, untouched. Max can’t blame him; just hours ago he arrested, with the help of Inspector Thursday of course, a particularly vicious blackmailer and more-recently-turned murderer with a grudge against his old _choir_ of all things and due to exceedingly complicated reasons, wanted to exact his final revenge on Easter Sunday itself. Morse’s magnificent brain – and Thursday’s considerable brawn – managed to save the day once again, but it had been a close call and not _entirely_ without injury.

Max sighs and pointedly taps the egg against the table, _one, two, three._ Morse glances up, almost annoyed, his mouth moving upwards in a kind of grimace; under the sun, dipping in and out behind minute spring clouds, his rather remarkable auburn locks tinted by the glow (making Max feel somewhat self-conscious of his own salt-and-pepper flyaway fringe), he looks, at present, like a rather irritated otter.

‘Here.’ Max lays the unwrapped egg between them; there’s such glorious satisfaction in the way it comes apart into two perfect pieces, but then his darling sister always sends gifts with such consummate good taste. Morse, however, seems confused by the invitation – or maybe the generosity – eyeing the egg rather dubiously.

Oh, really. ‘Come on,’ Max orders. ‘Get some of that down you. Blood sugar,’ he adds, holding Morse’s grudging gaze with the ease of long practise. ‘You’ve more than earnt it.’

It’s said with a glance towards the large plaster that’s covering a rather nasty nick on Morse’s arm, courtesy of their panicked killer whose two previous victims had sadly ended up on Max’s slab. Fortunately, it was far from the case for Morse; Max had been able to staunch the flow which wasn’t severe, but it would be nice if these murderers who seem to be hiding away beneath Oxfordshire’s woodwork would stop regarding Morse as merely something akin to a piece of meat.

‘He made it easy, in the end,’ Morse argues then, his hoarse voice something of a gentle shock among the grass and flowers following his silence. He’s not looking at Max, instead almost glaring out at the garden, as though the pink blossom is somehow to blame for his injury. _Loveliest of trees, the cherry now_ and yet Morse can’t seem to see it.

‘You tracked him down,’ Max crosses one leg over the other, calm. Morse groans, resting his forehead in his palm, for all the world as if the praise is poisonous to him; looks laden down with something significant and Max can’t help but feel concerned, pushing the chocolate closer towards him. Morse glances up at the rattle of foil, shakes his head minutely.

‘It’s not tainted, you know,’ Max pushes after a moment, ‘and before you ask, no, I’m not giving you anymore brandy, although I suspect that won’t be a problem for you later. Mix it up a bit, there’s a good chap,’ he presses, firmer now, wanting the other man to experience something outside the bottom of a bottle, even if just for five minutes.

Morse huffs, glares, a heavy brow over preoccupied eyes and reaching for the chocolate as though it’s the greatest hardship in the world, he snaps a rudimentary bit off, takes a bite. A few seconds later, his expression changes, eyebrows shooting up; responsive.

‘Where’d this come from?’ he reaches for his tea, taking another bite of chocolate with an eagerness he can’t quite hide. Honestly, Max can’t help but feel quite smug.

‘Present from my sister; an independent chocolatier who lives near her,’ he replies, entirely too cheerful. ‘She’s often in the habit of sending Easter and Christmas gifts from there, although given my run-in last year with the late D.S. Jago and his heavyweight halfwits –’

Morse spits some tea back into his cup, choking on an unexpected laugh that eases his previously-furrowed features, lends a sudden, unworried boyishness to his face; reaching for his napkin, he wipes his mouth and nose, shoulders trembling, murmuring unnecessary apologies through a huge grin. Max gives him a moment, feeling strangely charmed. Morse has always seemed older than his years, his eyes never quite losing that slight determined, slightly haunted quality that Max, a medical man first and last, has always fretted to see. The simple joy in watching him being caught off-guard is rather endearing.

‘Well, she’s rather pushed the boat out this year,’ he finishes graciously as Morse recovers himself. ‘Although I can’t say I’m complaining. I’ll hopefully lose the weight during summer season.’

He gestures to his garden, the promise of distractions, driving him further away, day by day, from what was probably the single most unpleasant night of his entire life. Morse, mouth lifted by his laughter, follows his gestures with his eyes, something in his face finally softening just as it did when he first came here; the way he was enraptured by the space in a way Max had never seen before, praising him for what he’d created. The days are drawing out, the nights are getting shorter; Max no longer feels the need to work late-shifts at the mortuary with every single light on. There are things, he reflects, reaching for a bit of egg himself, for which one must feel grateful.

‘Good for the soul,’ he declares, holding the chocolate between his fingers with all the panache of a surgeon delivering a lecture on needlework at St. Barts. Morse hums, taps his fingers on the table.

‘I should probably have sent my sister something,’ he says out of nowhere. ‘Joyce,’ he explains, almost needlessly. Max nods, quietly surprised at this sudden influx into the topic of Morse’s family, rarely-mentioned, although he _has_ heard this particular name before, spoken with a rare softness; a tenderness in the pronounced curve of the _J_. ‘Only her mother – Gwen – she’s mainly… anti-sugar, for the most part.’

He grimaces and with the movement of a man who knows – or at least believes – that he’s said too much, drops his gaze away. ‘Call her, though. When I can. Joyce, that is. Think she’s spending Easter with some friends, so.’ He makes a noise in his throat, something guilty or maybe too introspective; something he’d rather not dwell on and he turns his attention to Max with real determination. ‘What about you, what are you doing with yourself for the rest of the day?’

‘Easter lunch with friends,’ Max replies promptly, ‘tradition.’

‘Oh,’ Morse straightens, checks his watch, eyes widening truly comically in alarm, ‘Max, it’s after three, if you need to go –’

 _‘Late_ lunch, Morse, finish your tea,’ Max assures, putting out a hand to still him, ‘don’t worry, it gives them the morning to go to church and drink. Mainly drink, really.’ Morse chuckles weakly, half-out of his chair, looking rumpled and tired and ready to bolt, as if truly believing the tolerance for his companionship has suddenly expired.

‘You’d be welcome to join us,’ Max offers sincerely, struck by the fact that he really doesn’t want to leave him like this just hours after he took the tip of a dagger to the skin. ‘Geoffrey’s always on at me to bring a friend over. He roasts a very good joint of lamb,’ he adds, appealingly; Morse chuffs, smiling a rather sheepish smile.

‘I’m sure. Er, no - no thankyou,’ he adds hastily, as if remembering to remember his manners. ‘I’ll just go back to the station, finish up the paperwork. I’d rather it was done. The sooner the better,’ he adds, as if trying to convince himself somehow. ‘Kind of you, though.’

He looks like he means it, genuinely moved, eyeing Max with blue eyes that seem almost surprised. Max smiles and leaves it, not really surprised at Morse’s apparent aversion of going into a stranger’s house, however friendly they might be; the poor man would probably end up accidentally burning the whole place down in a fit of awkwardness. It’s a shame, but he’s known Morse long enough now to understand that he has his own reasons for things and as much as he wants to, he won’t push; it will just shut the sergeant down completely. That’s the last thing he needs – or deserves – after today.  

‘Are you _sure_ work is a good idea, considering…?’ is what he eventually settles on asking, nodding at the large plaster, pointedly, deciding it’s too much to expect the lad to take one day off. Morse huffs, follows his gaze.

‘I’m fine. I’ll be alright – but I will go to Casualty if it gets bad, I promise.’

 _‘Today,_ please, as opposed to next week,’ Max rejoins dryly; Morse gives him a slightly awkward thumbs-up (bloody hell), picks up his tea and drains it.

‘Promise,’ he assures. ‘I should go; let you get ready for your – your lunch.’

He stretches as he gets to his feet, yawns, and Max, standing with him, tampers down every medically-driven instinct rising inside him to simply bully – and blackmail, if necessary – the sergeant into simply going home. He’s often felt strangely helpless and quietly frustrated at the lad’s sense of martyrdom – one that has led to a lot of eye-rolling from the constabulary and hospital staff alike, unkind comments of ‘teacher’s pet’ and ‘Captain Scarlet’ muttered under breaths whenever Morse has walked past with another injury (one or two even singing the latter’s theme at him with truly mocking emphasis on the word ‘indestructible.’). The fact that Morse has spent years now putting his life on the line to save others – that he brings people into the hospital for treatment who otherwise could have died – always seems to register after the fact. 

Watching Morse tangle haphazardly with his tie – he truly _will_ strangle himself one of these days – Max sighs and beckons him forward. Morse pauses, then obeys, almost questioningly and Max waves aside both his clumsy hands with his own; pulls the tie centre, pushes the crumpled collar back into place, very aware this is one of a few _very_ select times they’ve stood without a slab, or any other necessary gap, between them. Morse, for his part, stays perfectly still, perfectly _calm_ , eyes curious but not distressed - nor is he attempting to retreat from this impromptu spruce-up.

All things considered, it’s really a rather welcome sign of trust. 

‘You _are_ allowed to take time off, you know,’ Max cautions, stepping back briskly when he’s done, aware that it’s probably going to fall on deaf ears; takes note of the sudden lump in Morse’s throat, the way all his tentative relaxation abruptly falls away.

‘They were people’s sisters, the two women he killed,’ he meets Max’s eyes, stony. ‘And for what? Some twenty-year-old feud over _singing,_ of all things?’ He bristles, visibly insulted by the motive, by the deed. ‘And I had to be the one to tell their families. On Easter weekend.’ He looks away, frustrated; lips tripping over other words he can’t form, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

‘Have I not reason to lament what man has made of man,’ Max quotes softly, sadly, a quotation which comes to mind far too often in their line of work. ‘I know, Morse. I know.’ He watches the other man scoff, unable to hide his hurt, his hand reaching up to grasp his own neck. ‘But you prevented the same for others – even taking those pains on yourself.’ He delicately indicates the poor man’s cut. ‘That’s something to be thankful for, wouldn’t you say?’

Morse raises his chin a little at that, his expression easing into something between a quiet pride at the praise and an almost self-aware satisfaction. The sun slips out, casting a soft glow around the edges of his face; a bird whistles somewhere nearby and he looks towards the sound, eyes narrowed a little against the light and raises a hand to rake it through his hair, highlighted a gentle red like rum-cake, visibly trying to ground himself again.  

‘From land to land,’ he murmurs, voice caught by _something,_ ‘and in my breast, spring wakens too…and my… _regret,’_ he swallows, wets his lips as his voice catches, but continues nevertheless, ‘becomes an April violet.’

‘And buds and blossoms like the rest,’ Max finishes with him, their two voices, one deeper, one higher, forming a kind of synchronisation in the calm, among the daffodils and the hyacinth. Nothing like a bit of Tennyson before lunch.

‘Well, it’s actually March, isn’t it,’ Morse murmurs distractedly – and how much he has bloomed already, Max considers, despite adversity on all sides; evolved from the young man who fainted on his first visit to the mortuary, becoming taller in the growth of his own convictions, slowly and be degrees, budding a little more every year, laying his land with values of determination; of limiting the amount of bodies that go into the ground. He rather puts Max in mind of hyacinthoides non-scripta; a bluebell that can thrive in the damp of the wild, uncontainable, unpickable.

The wind picks up, a cooler breeze; Morse breaks the spell with a few feeble gestures, a murmur along the lines of, ‘Well, I’d better…’ Max just nods, walking with him through the garden and back through the cottage. Taking note of the unsteady shuffle of Morse’s feet against the thick carpet, Max excuses himself briefly and dips into the kitchen, rattles around in the refrigerator until he finds what he’s looking for. He hurries back to meet a quizzical Morse at the door, already taking his coat from the hook.

‘If you _are_ going to slave away in the station all afternoon, take this.’ He tosses the wrapped, silver Easter egg from his sister’s care-package into Morse’s hands. The sergeant catches it on reflex, looking stunned; caught.

‘Max, no, I can’t –’

‘If you don’t take it, Morse, then I shall be extremely offended.’ Max places his hands in his pockets, talking completely unapologetically across him, gives him a look, voice dangerously even. ‘You _know_ what happens when I get offended.’

Morse audibly gulps, eyes widening; there’s a moment when Max thinks he’s going to argue and then his hands tighten around the egg and he pockets it delicately, clearly deciding it’s not worth the resultant character-assassination if he’s foolish enough to say no. Quotations from the poetic works of Lord Byron, if Max is feeling particularly vicious. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘I am,’ Max assures, frankly insulted at the insinuation that he would ever do things he doesn’t care for – he certainly would never have willingly sort out DS Jago and his collection of human fists for company, for example. ‘It’s milk chocolate, in case you’re wondering,’ he adds, not missing the way Morse glances into the coat pocket now containing the egg with a question in his eyes. ‘I think I can safely presume at this point that you don’t have any allergies, although if you were to reveal any to me, I confess I wouldn’t be sure whether to laugh or despair.’

Morse chuckles, cheeks rosy. ‘No. Nothing like that, thankyou, just…’ He waves his car-keys around for a moment. ‘I can’t really remember the last time I actually _had_ an Easter egg.’

He stares hard at the floor, past his hands, looking not so much embarrassed as reminiscent; snagged on some thought or another and Max recalls another rare revelation, a few Christmases ago, murmured over a pint in the pub, that the late Mrs Morse was a Quaker. It certainly explains the reticence towards celebrating holidays and he crosses that gulf one more time to lay a hand on Morse’s elbow; to comfort, maybe, or simply steady him in his tiredness. Small mercies, he supposes, that Morse accepted at all; it’s only more recently that he’s truly started to realise that his own life does, in fact, hold value. To others, at the very least, if not to himself.

‘Thankyou, Max,’ Morse looks up at the touch of his palm and when he speaks, his voice is stronger; sincere. ‘Happy Easter.’ It sounds strange, unnatural, as though it’s something he’s trying out on his tongue for the first time, in the same manner he might test out a phrase or a word in a foreign language with which he was unfamiliar.

It makes Max smile. ‘Happy Easter, Morse,’ he replies, making a mental note to bring some extra lamb sandwiches back from Geoffrey’s and walks out with him to the car.  

*

**Author's Note:**

> Inevitably, Max has the A.E. Housman poem in mind when he's thinking of blossom and quotes Wordsworth's 'Written in Early Spring.' Both he and Morse quote Tennyson's Canto CXV, 'Now fades the long last streak of snow.' The show Captain Scarlet ('Indestructible Captain Scarlet!') was broadcast between 1967 and 1968.


End file.
